


Starkholm Syndrome

by AudreyXuan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brienne rescues Sansa, Gen, Mentions of Catelyn Stark, Older Sansa, POV Brienne of Tarth, POV Female Character, Post - Red Wedding, Purple Wedding, Red Wedding, Stockholm Syndrome, Universe Alteration, mentions of Red Wedding - Freeform, or at least tries to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:58:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AudreyXuan/pseuds/AudreyXuan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Despite the punny name, this is pure angst) In which Brienne tries to rescue Sansa after the Purple Wedding, but Lady Stark is too well-trained to accept an invitation to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starkholm Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this using a aSoIaF fic generator I came up with: character + character + random words.  
> Sansa + Brienne + (night/persist/nonsense)

“My lady.” Her voice was wavering, quaky with fear, anxiety, and the feeling of having something right within your grasp after chasing it for so long. _Nonsense_ , Brienne told herself. _She is here now. I have nothing to fret about._ “I am here to take you home.”

Lady Stark described her daughter having rich auburn hair, but Sansa’s locks had faded to a dull russet, almost as dark as her crushed soul. Purple Wedding, purple brocade dress, purple bruises, but still she wore a broken smile. “I am home, my lady. King’s Landing is my home.”

“Beg pardon, Lady Stark, but you are wrong in that. You belong at Winterfell, my lady. Winterfell is your home. And with your half-brother illegitimate and four of your siblings gone or killed—you have my prayers and my commiserations—you are the rightful heir of Winterfell. I was sent by Lady Stark to bring you home. I will keep my oath to her, despite her being … despite the events at the Red Wedding.”

A flicker of something indescribable flashed across Sansa’s face—hope, shame, then perhaps skepticism. But it was promptly replaced with that icy, distant, obedient half-smile. “I … the King did his duty at the Twins. My mother… I mean, Lady Stark and her… son, they were traitors. The King did what needed to be done.”

Brienne wanted to slap her. Not for pain, like the King would, but for Sansa’s stupidity. Sansa was not being foolish, though. She was. Brienne had had a small taste of King’s Landing, and from what she could deduct, it was a place more dangerous than a battlefield and more deadly than a wedding. Although Lady Stark had told her it was Arya, the little girl-warrior, who would be stubborn, Sansa was the real fighter. She had grown up in the clutches of the Lannisters, and she knew how to hold her tongue. But she did not strike her. Instead the Lady of Tarth broke down in tears and persisted in her spiel.

“My Lady. I do not know how I can convince you to come with me. You have nothing and no one left, except perhaps your half-brother and your home. Your real home. If you come with me, I cannot promise safety. I cannot promise security. You might get hurt, raped, or killed. But what I can promise is I will do anything, even die, if it will assure your getting home.” Brienne lay down her sword at Sansa’s feet and kneeled. “Say the words, Lady Stark. Say the words and I will swear fealty to you, as I did with your mother. Please. Just say the words.”

The lack of protest made Brienne raise her head. Lady Sansa, the last Stark, the Lannister bride, the battered girl with the bruised, now dark-as-night heart, was crying. Not wracking sobs, but a single silent tear. Somehow it tore through Brienne’s soul even more.

“ _Go_.” Sansa whispered. It was the worst thing she could’ve said. Brienne would’ve rather taken “Yes, I’ll come,” or “Leave me alone,”. She would rather be called out as a traitor by Lady Stark in front of the whole court, her head over a chopping block. Anything but this. “Go” was something the Stark girl didn’t believe in, but she was too tired to act like she did.

Wordlessly, Brienne the Beauty picked up her sword and stood up, looking Sansa in her eyes, blue to blue. There were a million reasons to go, but none of them would convince the girl. She was built on reason now—not the logic of the North, or Dorne, or any other damn place than here—but the twisted, backwards logic of King’s Landing, where a direwolf was now a lion and go would mean stay. Here, Brienne the Bold was Brienne the Meek. Here she couldn’t convince a frightened little girl to come home. If she couldn’t do that, she couldn’t do anything.


End file.
